The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Capital Wasteland
by M.J.P. Smith
Summary: There exists a remarkable book in the outlying ruins of Washington DC. A book so extraordinary that men and women from the Republic of Dave to Girdershade, from Rivet City to Raven Rock all swear by its wisdom. That book is the Wasteland Survival Guide. But it almost wasn't. This is the story of that remarkable book and it's chief field editor. Rated T for language, violence.
1. Chapter 1

**The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Capital Wasteland**

 **The Definitive Guide to Understanding, Evading and/or Annihilating any and all Dangers Hiding in the DC Hellhole**

* * *

The following dedication appears in the book:

for Lucas and Moria  
and all other Wastelanders for  
water, bullets and a tin roof

* * *

 **Chapter One**

Far out in the barely mapped backend of Brahman wastes of Maryland, lies a once beautiful, but unprotected green-tinted city. From this city, a child of the atom, once only known by a moniker given to him by one of many three-headed dogs of the oddly shaped Commonwealth, set out in search of his father. Within the first thirty days of his search, he realized how small his world truly was.

This child has, or rather had, a problem, which was this: most of his accomplishments and those of his fellows were so far in reverse of what he expected that he sought to go out and do something about that. But regardless of how many steps he took, someone or something was there to set him another step back.

He was increasingly of the opinion that he'd made a big mistake leaving the relative safety and isolation of the vast, underground Vault from whence he came. Yes, his eviction was rather sudden and the three men he murdered that day were certainly a mark against him, but the choice was still there: run or die.

And then, many weeks into his journey, more than ten years since a man had been set up near a microphone to tell people how nice it would be to chill the ever-loving fuck out, the young man finally lost. Every ideal was wrung out to dry, every iota of his former self blew away at ground zero of his own, personal nuclear detonation. At this point, a Vault Dweller died.

This is not his story.

But it is the story of the immediate fallout from that death and the Wanderer that arose from the ashes.

This is also the story of a book, a book called the Wasteland Survival Guide – not an American book, never published when there was such a nation as America, and until long after the Great War, never considered a necessity by Americans.

Nevertheless a piece of literature valued by all in the wastes. In fact, it was probably the most remarkable published work until almost three centuries later when the first publishing house of New New York City was established in the ruins of the once proud city-state.

More copies of the Wasteland Survival Guide have been made than any other book, written or duplicated – and the helpful nature and easy writing make the advice flow from page to Waster with no loss of knowledge.

But enough about the bloody book. This story revolved around that book's chief research editor and his terrible, tragic first year away from the Vault from which no one ever enters and from which no one ever leaves. Besides that, the story begins simply.

It begins with a house.

* * *

"You open this door right this minute, punk, or I'll break it down!"

Nearly the whole town, minus the self-proclaimed overseer and tavernman and the uncaring mercenaries who took up guard posts around town, was gathered on the porch of one particular tin and steel house.

This particular home had stood vacant for more than seven years until a young man came wandering into the small, but thriving, metropolis of metal walkways and social gatherings around the large, unexploded atomic bomb in the center of the crater than made up the geography. One of his first actions on coming into town, after meeting the town Sheriff and having a shouting match with the town loudmouth, disarmed the ever-present danger with little more than a pair of pliers and the A-OK from Lucas Simms.

Right now, that very Sheriff, Simms, was beating away at the young man's door, insisting that he come out. The robotic butler that once belonged to the former tenant could be heard along with the fierce barking of the young man's dog.

"I'm terribly sorry, Sheriff," the butler intoned in a crisp, foreign accent. "The master is not taking callers at this time."

"Tin can," Simms said, "if you don't open this door on the count of five, I'm breaking it down. You get that boy down here and tell him to bring a good explanation about what happened last night with him."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, I'll make the attempt."

The robot floated away from the thin door up toward the single bedroom. The door was closed, but unlocked. Inside, the single human occupant sat up in bed, tugging boots on over his altered Vault 101 jumpsuit.

"Wadsworth," the young man said.

"Sir, I'm afraid Mayor Simms is insisting on your presence."

"I can hear that," he said as he finished tying the laces and tugging them into a semi-permanent knot. "Tell Simms I'll be down in a minute."

Down the stairs, a noted lack of the drum-like beating on the tin door caused the young man to speed his preparations. A modified, armored jumpsuit adorned the young man's body protecting him from much of what the weather could throw at him. He wore a nasty looking revolver on his hip and slung a rifle over each arm. From his belt hung a few radiation chems and stimpaks, as well as assorted bits of hardware for making repairs or assembling ammunition on the road. All in all, the man was armed for a small, out-of-the-way war.

"Wadsworth, I left money in the desk upstairs. Keep Dogmeat fed while I'm out, got it?"

"Certainly, sir! I shall maintain his current diet and walk as needed!"

"Thanks. I should be back some time…"

The young man took a fixed blade from his boot and etched into the handle of his revolver: R 21:6. Admiring his handiwork and pleased with the condition of both the knife and gun, he returned both to their places on his person and opened the door.

"Sheriff," he said simply.

"Kid," the Sheriff said sharply, "you have a lot of explaining to do."

You see, last night the "Kid from Vault 101" had a long visit to the town's saloon; one owned and operated by the most detestable man this side of the DC ruins. Colin Moriarty. The night began with a drink and a conversation with Gob, the bartender and effective slave to the tavern's owner.

The kid was slumped over the front of the bar, his back to the door near by, and droned on about this or that. "Gob, I don't even know what I'm doing anymore."

Gob, having taken a liking to the kid for the simple kindness of not being revolted on meeting a Ghoul for the first time, listened with long-earned patience and the empathy not to say anything unless invited to specifically. The whole affair was horribly tragic, but not unexpected out in the wastes.

Last week, barely a month into the kid's new life out in the wasteland, the kid found his dad after all that time searching. Long story short, the moment he and dear, old dad started working together on his dead mother's lifelong goal, some armored freaks calling themselves the Enclave show up and start shooting. How the kid described it, his father died of several gunshot wounds and radiation over eight hundred Roentgens (far above death level).

The kid had also been drinking tonight. Gob delivered what he asked for, but could tell it hadn't started in the saloon.

"God—Grod—G-Gob," the kid stuttered over his drink, "pour me another."

"Look, kid," Gob said. "You really don't need another. I think it's time you went home, alright?"

Which is when the owner walked in from the back room.

"What's this now about sending one our best customers of the night home, Mr. Gob," Moriarty said in his almost cultured tone.

"Sir, any more and the kid might not make it home," Gob pleaded.

"Nonsense. Pour the kid another and be sure to collect all fifteen Caps for the service."

Shots of the shit Moriarty made in the back room were barely worth one Cap a shot, and even then he should be paying the customers for drinking his filth.

"I can't serve him anymore," Gob said.

Moriarty leaned over the Ghoul, not caring about his personal space in the slightest. "You listen to me, zombie," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "I fucking own your rotting ass until you pay back my two hundred Caps. Until then, you pour this fucking degenerate alcohol until he dies and you take what he owes me off his cold, dead—"

A large chunk of Moriarty's right ear vanished with the puff of air moving through a steam pipe across the bartop. It took from the moment Moriarty let go of Gob to the pants shitting reaction he had when he saw the kid's obscene homemade rifle to realize that hole in his earlobe had been made by the railroad spike embedded in the back wall of the saloon.

The kid vaulted over the bar, taking a collection of glassware and varying volumes of alcohol with him right into the owner's torso. Both fell and the kid dragged Moriarty up screaming.

"Out," the kid demanded, dragging out the word to make his point.

The bar fell silent except for the sweet Jazz from Galaxy News Radio crackling away on the receiver that had been relocated to the corner for better signal. Of the few people there that night, Lucy West was staring from her usual corner table and dinner of Brahman steak and Nuka Cola. Nova, another of the owner's slaves, peered over the second floor landing to see what the noise was. Gob hadn't moved except to stand against the side wall away from the fight and the other patrons had stopped drinking.

"I said out!" The kid pushed his rifle into Moriarty's back and forced him toward the door. The door flew open and out he went right up to the safety railing where he fell over on the metal gangway. The kid screamed at him to get up and start walking to the center of town.

Moriarty, to the surprise of many onlookers both did as he was told and was screaming for help. He was halfway down the ramps, the kid in tow still brandishing his gun, when Lucas Simms came out of his quiet home to see what was bothering his town.

It shocked him, the hardened former Regulator turned town protector, to find the silent, intelligent kid from the Vault threatening the self-proclaimed fiscal owner of Megaton and getting his way. His amusement and shock fell away and he ran over, Chinese Assault Rifle out and ready.

The kid kicked out, sending Moriarty right into the radioactive muck in the lowest pocked of the Megaton crater, right up against the now dead atomic bomb. In his drunken escapade, the kid was thankful that the nice older couple that run the creepy church in town weren't out at this hour. It would have been a shame to interrupt one of their fucking cultish sermons with such a violent act.

The workers and patrons of the saloon, along with many people still wandering around and socializing in Megaton at the late time gathered to watch the only real entertainment any of them had gotten in years of living there.

The kid had his foot on Moriarty's back, keeping the man from crawling out of the deadly hole he found himself in.

"Tell Gob you're sorry," he managed to say through a slightly broken, drunken voice.

"Fuck you," Moriarty yelled.

The kid picked up his boot and kicked down on the older man again. Something cracked and Moriarty screamed in pain.

"Not the right answer," he said more soberly than before.

"Pull your foot back," came the strong, deep voice of Lucas Simms.

The kid didn't answer, actually managing to dig his boot deeper into his enemy's back.

"Boy, I like you a hell of a lot for disarming that bomb, but in my town you listen to me. Now you get your foot off that man."

Almost tempted to ignore the modern cowboy Sheriff again, the kid did as he was told.

"Now lower that… gun and we can talk this out."

Again, the kid did as ordered. He dropped the gun, holding it by the strap level with the ground.

"Sheriff," the kid said, "if it's all the same to you, I'm going home for the night. Drank too much."

Simms almost didn't let it go with that, but the way the kid set down the haphazard firearm and by the tears streaming down his face, he let it go.

"Kid, you report to me at noon tomorrow or I'm coming for you. Got me?"

"Yes, sir."

Which leads us to the current situation.

"Sheriff, come in."

Simms did so, leaving the crowd to wonder what would be said within the house. Too bad for them.

"Son, you'd better have one hell of an explanation as to that little tantrum last night."

"Sheriff," the kid said slowly and reverently, "I didn't like the way Moriarty was treating his employees. He's lucky you stopped me from putting a bullet in his head."

"Way I heard it, it was a rail spike."

"That too. I'm leaving. Dogmeat and Wadsworth are here, so treat them well. I made arrangements with Jenny down at the Lantern to see that Dogmeat eats and Moria is going to watch my house for me."

"You plan on being gone long?"

"I need to get out of town for a while. Moria has some work for me, so I'll be out a while. Don't let Moriarty take his revenge on Gob or Nova. If he lays a finger on either of them, tell him I'm coming back eventually and I'll personally hang him from his fucking bar."

"After last night, that threat might hold. You took off most of his ear."

"Funny," the kid said, "I was aiming for his head."

Simms responded slowly. "Boy, you have issues."

"You don't know the half of it. Tell anyone who asks that I'm on vacation. And don't let anyone in my house who isn't Jenny or Moria. Dogmeat'll kill if he doesn't like who's in my house."

"What sort of work are you doing for Miss Brown?"

"She's been writing a book, but needed someone to do some research for her in the field. Figure it'll get my mind off… I've had a bad month. I need the time away from people to sort it out."

The kid clammed up at that point. Simms, knowing the sign opted to leave without anything else said. Once Simms was gone, the kid gathered the few items he still needed and went for the door.

"Hitchhiker's Guide to the Capital Wasteland? Have got to do something about that name."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Capital Wasteland**

 **The Definitive Guide to Understanding, Evading and/or Annihilating any and all Dangers Hiding in the DC Hellhole**

* * *

The following dedication appears in the book:

for Harith and Roe  
and the trade caravans  
for services rendered

* * *

Chapter Two

The Capital Wasteland is big. Like… really big. And if you're reading this, you almost certainly don't understand how vastly, maddeningly, stupidly big this little slice of heaven actually is. Like, you might think it's one hell of a walk from your house in Springvale to Doc Church's in Megaton, but that's peanuts to the whole Wasteland.

From time to time, you might have met some of the terribly few that often, and often to their personal peril, leave the confines of their relatively safe homes and venture out into the wastes. For now, I speak of none other than the Canterbury Commons Trade Caravan Company. The CCTCC has been one of the longest lasting, and certainly one of the most powerful, organizations in the Capital for more than ten years mostly from three distinct aspects of their ability and luck.

First, these brave traders are willing to run circles around the Capital and shoot down any freelance Socialists (read: raiders and/or slavers) they meet on the way just to bring people the finest in anything your little hearts can handle. Ever see Crow's men shoot down a Super Mutant? No? That's because they cleaned out their route in the first year of the CCTCC's operation. What about the other caravans, you might ask. Between the Brotherhood of Steel and the few Enclave Remnants that agreed to integrate, the routes stay clear. Remember, the Hellfire armor isn't meant to be feared anymore, but still very respected.

Second, the caravans used to be the only way to communicate in the wastes in both directions. Say it took Doc Hoff's people two weeks to make their way around their route. Old Hoff could pick up news or mail from Canterbury Commons, get word of this or that from Paradise Falls, deliver and gather mail from Arefu and back down south-east to Megaton and Rivet City. By the time he makes it all around up to Canterbury, the latest news, besides any emergency broadcasts from Three-Dog or Miss. Agatha, has been delivered and a new cycle is rolling out.

These days, now that almost every major settlement has some sort of two-way communications setup, this aspect of the CCTCC is almost totally obsolete. But the caravans still like their gossip and are still a source of news and mail delivery that would be unheard of if they just up and gave in the towel.

The third, and perhaps the most important, aspect of the caravan's importance and power is money. Nothing says the Capital needs a united caravan service like cold, hard Caps. That's where the story stops.

There is little to say about the CCTCC's mysterious benefactor other than the nameless, sexless oddity is wealthier than Allistair Tenpenny, may his soul rot in the hell be wrought for himself. One day following one of the Mechanist/AntAgonizer "battles" in Canterbury, this stranger made a deal with Roe, the, then, unofficial leader of the caravans. A massive pile of Caps was invested in each caravan and they each started moving five Brahman per trip and hired on the reformed Talon Company as a permanent security force.

Now the CCTCC, consisting of the, now, CEO Roe and the Talon Security Company, patrols the wastes bringing food, weapons and armor, and sweet, fresh Aqua Pura to all for trade and barter.

And that's just the history of the company – cross this article with that on custom weapons and farming technology and you'll see why the Wasteland is doing so well.

* * *

The Kid left that morning from Megaton. A quick stop to see Moria Brown and get the first wave of his assignments and a stop in the center of town to toss a few Caps to the Lantern and the Kid was on his merry way out into the Wastes.

With no one to talk to for the long walk, he settled for scanning the horizon for trouble. Raiders patrolled the collapsed overpass lanes and Super Mutants stumbled around the outermost skeletal buildings of DC proper, so he avoided both by sticking to outcroppings of rock and the corpses of trees.

He nodded over some of the notes Moira gave him for his extended research trip and decided on one of the easier portions. She wanted the Kid to explore pre-War supermarkets and convenience stores for viability as shelters as well for supplies. After all, what could go wrong?

The closest establishment Moira knew of was a Super-Duper Mart, one of hundreds of old chain grocery stores that littered the DC/Baltimore metropolitan area. He approached from behind the building, but noted it at a single floor plus machinery and the like on the roof. Maybe one hundred and thirty feet to a side and probably had a parking lot around the front if the broken down passenger bus off to the side was any indication.

Around the front of the building, the Kid could see a couple men in barely protective, spiked armor carrying commercial hunting rifles. Not a weapon in any military sense, but the ammunition was common and the rifles were cheap to maintain. There were bags of human remains just hanging around and several corpses of both men and women hung from various spots in the large, open space. These people didn't seem to care, leading the Kid to believe this was likely what happened to their prisoners.

Neither man had noticed him yet, which was perfect. The bus made for fantastic cover given basic human psychology.

Anyone but the most well trained soldier might have begun to edit the bus out of his mind if he was patrolling in the hot, Wasteland sun all day. Two rifles, a revolver and a combat knife were sifting through the Kid's mind, deciding which to use first. He'd have to make the first shot count because he'd be under fire on the second.

The appropriately named Railway Rifle wasn't the most accurate or the most powerful item in his limited arsenal, but it certainly made one hesitate at the sight or sound of it. Ten meters stood between him and one of the raiders who had just up and stopped, sitting at one of the metal benches of the parking lot. What more could the Kid ask for?

He lined up the improvised sights, an iron bar and the steam chamber's gauge, adjusted his aim for how far off he knew the weapon was from the sighting, and fired once.

A single railroad spike left the improvised firearm, made the ten meter distance quickly, and took less than the time it took to blink in taking the raider's entire head off at the neck in a wrenching, guttural tear.

It took long enough for the other guard to realize what had happened that the Kid was already making a dead run at him with the combat knife. The raider opened fire with his bolt-action rifle and managed to get two shots off, neither of which hit their mark – embedding themselves in the bus behind the Kid.

In the moment before he swung the blade, the Kid leapt forward, trying to put as much pressure into the action as possible. The raider screamed and used his rifle as a shield as well as he could. The knife cut into the raider's arm, but missed the Kid's intended target: his chest.

The raider turned, using his rifle as a club and knocking the Kid over the head. The hit made its mark, but only served to relieve the older, grizzled man long enough to miss the Kid pulling his revolver from its holster and firing right through his upper chest.

It was over and the Kid was heaving, throwing up next to the second corpse, his knife forgotten in the dirt and his sidearm between his body and the ground.

It took many minutes for the Kid to control his panic and to loot his dead enemies. Each bore proof of their ways – human remains kept as trophies to point out one of the least grotesque examples. He found a total of seventeen .32 caliber rounds and snuck around the side of the building to hide the hunting rifles. Maybe if they were still there when he got back, he could do something with them.

One of them had a Nuka Cola. The Kid liked the taste of the pre-War soft drink, but the radiation intake from drinking one almost made it pointless. He tucked it into one of the two hundred year old Nuka machines outside the market before sneaking inside.

And oh, he wished he hadn't.

From one side of the building, he could watch from relative safety the occupying raiders walking from fortification to fortification. The place was locked down tightly, but had several glaring holes in the defenses.

The Kid darted for the bathrooms the moment he saw the last raider turn a blind corner. No escape from that direction, but it was a possible kill zone with little to no chance for alert. God, when did the Kid start thinking in terms of kill zones and death? Oh, right. It was when some southern-sounding jackass charged into Project Purity and killed his last remaining family.

No… not sour about that at all.

Over the next two hours, he dispatched four men and two women who wandered into the dark hallway. Not a single one knew what was happening until the Kid's blade was halfway through their throats. Ammunition for his revolver and more hunting rifles and ammo. No stims or radaway, but each had some chems on them. Jet or Buffout mostly. One had Psycho. Fuck alone knows what good their guns were all strung out on drugs.

Of the group of ten raiders that called the grocery their hideout, eight were dead and the others didn't seem to have noticed. The Kid slowly crept around the corner and over the pharmacy counter. One raider walking around back there hadn't seen him and the Kid ducked into the back room.

Shelves of trash and, few useful, medication and supplies. He collected the useful chems and carefully shattered cylinders of Psycho, letting the contents spill out over the counters. Glory be, two syringes of Mex-X! Of the valued chems in the Wastes, Mex-X made dealing with bullet wounds much easier on the part of the patient. Could be addictive, but if used properly, there wasn't much worry of that. Much.

A mini-nuke sat on the back wall, adorning the pharmacy with the possibility of swift, radioactive death. The Kid clipped it to his belt, uncaring if it could end him faster than any raider with a grudge.

He released the grocery store's Protectron from its case, instructing it to hunt the men wielding guns in the store. On its way, the Kid leapt back over the counter and made quick work of the second to last raider in the deli while his robotic friend dealt a final, fiery blow to the last enemy.

What more, but to grab the freeze-dried supplies and take off?

That morning, Moria found a package and a few torn pages from a notebook on the doorstep of Craterside Supply, the most extensive store that side of DC and her pride and joy. She frowned at not getting to hear about the adventure firsthand, but quickly forgot her disappointment in lieu of science and advancement. Grinning to herself, Moira Brown started in on copying the information to her personal terminal.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Capital Wasteland**

 **The Definitive Guide to Understanding, Evading and/or Annihilating any and all Dangers Hiding in the DC Hellhole**

* * *

The following dedication appears in the book:

for Bannon and Crow  
and the outfitters of the Wastes  
for the means to remake ourselves

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

Clothing, some say with this guide's endorsement, is one of the most important aspects of Wasteland society today. This is made especially clear when traveling between the settlement of Megaton and that of Rivet City. From the open Wastes to the formerly Mutant-infested cask of Downtown DC, whether or not you took a 5.56mm bullet to the brainpan could often depend on the color of your shirt. It was generally accepted, however, that taking a mini-nuke to the face was dependent on not getting on the bad side of the Wasteland's Messiah.

If you had the fortune to be wearing simple combat armor, the only real trouble you might have is from Super Mutants and bands of raiders. If that armor was painted black, someone might mistake you for an old Talon merc, and shoot on sight. Simple clothing, and maybe a coat, was the safest to approach people with. Made you look harmless. Mostly.

But power armor… If anyone besides the Brotherhood of Steel still wears this pre-War technological marvel, more power to them. It's imposing, heavy and increases your natural strength by a factor of five – but it has a certain connotation in the Wastes. Silver and white means Brotherhood, saviors, warriors of good. Black and gold armor used to mean Enclave, terror and death. Not so much any more, but people still remember when the sight of black power armor meant to run and hide.

Disguises tend not to work with settlements or factions in Washington. And frankly, it's usually because anyone who needs a disguise never does even the most cursory research. It is of note that simply hunching your shoulders and ripping your shirt will not make ghouls like you. At the Guide office in Megaton, this fact was discovered in the very early days of writing with field officers vanishing near the Tenpenny tunnels out to the west.

Most communities are tightly enough knit to make an impostor easy to spot. A scuffed boot, a badly painted logo, even the way your arms swing when you walk gives away the lie to anyone looking for it. The bottom line is this: don't think putting on your dead enemy's kilt is going to keep his buddies from shooting you. Go out for a pint instead, it's safer.

It is worth mentioning that the best place to acquire a cold beer in the Wastes is probably Tenpenny Tower. Not the most inviting place and a good place to get your head shot off, but the beer is damn tasty. The second-best place for alcohol in the Wastes lies in the Underworld of the National Mall. Paint thinner couldn't do a better job of numbing your taste buds. Don't insult the owner. She'll kill you.

As an open and, oftentimes, contradictory assistant to surviving in the Capital Wasteland, we would be remiss to disinclude some of the finest locations for the gathering or changing of clothing in your home.

The safest, perhaps, is Potomac Attire located in Rivet City. The prices are, quite frankly, utter Deathclaw's kidneys, but the quality is above all from the tender, loving care Mr. Bannon placed in each garment and piece of armor.

The most accessible is Crow's caravan, the man who delivers the very means to remake yourself. You can find him most readily at Canterbury Commons, Megaton and Rivet City.

Last, but certainly not least, is Dave's Outlet all the way up in, you guessed it, the _glorious_ Democratic People's Republic of Dave. Seeking 100% leather goods? Dave's your man. He paid up to write that, but in all honestly his leatherworking is pretty nice despite the crazy in President Dave's head.

Wastelander's lives might depend on the clothing they're wearing. But don't stress about it. Go home, wear some cheap pre-War cotton and don't get caught in the wrong town with the wrong pants.

* * *

It was important to blend in out there in the Wastes. That's part of the reason the Kid had a threadbare knapsack slung across his back and a suit of metal, spiked armor over his otherwise only mildly dehydrated body.

He passed by a raider camp with barely a nasty comment slung towards him. It had been weeks, but this was the first time the Kid had seen any clue of an alliance between raider groups. He'd suspected that some of them work together from time to time, but never had any real proof.

Not getting shot at on the Capital Beltway was always a plus – and considering it's the fastest way into the northern downtown area, he grinned in delight before trying his best to hide his almost shining teeth from the passing female enemies.

The Kid had some ideas about how men and women interacted in raider bands, but kept the assumptions to himself. His stomach turned when he thought about that too much – or maybe it's all the barely filtered water he'd been drinking lately. Gods the water out here is terrible! But what can one man do?

At the northwestern tip of DC proper, the Kid took a long look up the river. He could see his destination in the distance: an old highway overpass turned town out by the old Meresti Metro station. On his last pass through Megaton, he'd taken up a little extra work from Moira. Playing courier was within the Kid's skillset. And besides, it's good money for little more than a mildly dangerous walk.

He dumped the metal armor in a fairly distinctive set of bushes near a wrecked boat on the riverbed. So long as no one came across it, he might be able to creep back down the Loop back for more work. The last of he first batch of research assignments had almost run dry and he would have to be close to Moira for the last one.

At the base of the onramp to Arefu, the tiny, twenty-person settlement, the Kid noted three mildly malnourished Brahman grazing the short, dry reminders that plant life still grows a little there. There wasn't the telltale of a town above him, but being so small it wasn't too surprising.

At the top of the ramp, he noted the concrete barrier with a shadow sticking out from behind it. Over the top of the bit of cover, a small grenade flew out of a launch tube right at the Kid.

Not that he had anything to worry about. It landed halfway between him and whoever fired it and exploded harmlessly, spreading a little fire over the top of the concrete structure.

Almost on autopilot, the Kid made a leaping dive for the concrete divider and brought the old man behind it down in one smooth action. From face up on the ground, the man demanded, "Get the hell off me! Help, help, god damn it!"

The few residents came scampering out of their tin and aluminum homes to see the Kid scuffling with the town Mayor, Evan King, judging by the strangely out of place badge hung from his neck.

"Damn the lot of you, get him off'a me!"

The Kid released the grip he had over King's arms and legs, slowing coming back to stand in front of the townspeople.

King got unsteadily to his feet.

"Who the hell are you? You ain't with the Family, huh?"

The Kid gave a quizzical look, raising an eyebrow enough to signify he had barely the start of an idea of what the man was yelling about.

"Those bastards have been terrorizing us for weeks. Just yesterday they slaughtered mosta' our Brahman! This has gone too far!"

One of the residents walked forward to help the older man stand properly.

King said, "I've got kids and women here mostly. I can't defend everyone myself."

"What do you need," the Kid asked, finally speaking aloud.

"Go and figure out what the hell the Family wants! Maybe they'll leave us alone if we just figure that out and give it to them."

"I came around the Beltway. I don't think a raider party cares about payment.

"Kid, you know that for a fact? You come back here alive with news and I'll even find a way to pay you!"

"Oh," the Kid exclaimed. "That reminds me, is there an Ian West here?"

The townspeople looked around at themselves, unsure. One man, maybe the same age or older than Evan King, stepped forward.

"The Wests are dead," he said with mournful dignity. "Ian is missing."

"What," King said. "Why wasn't I told about this?"

"Last night," the man said. "Didn't think it mattered. Busy tidying defenses toward the back of town."

King tried to rally, but gave up in moments only. It wasn't worth arguing about. "Stranger, will you do something about the Family? Will you find Ian? If those despots took him…"

"I'll try," the Kid said. "I can't make any promises I'll even find them or Ian."

Another Arefu resident, a young girl, said, "Try the Metro stations. Grandpa says that's where the raiders and slavers hang out."

The Kid nodded, left without another word; back down the former highway ramp.

* * *

In the Wasteland Survival Guide's chapter on mythical creatures, many pre-War stories are recorded and referenced to make an interesting point about the current mutations of many Maryland, Virginia and Pennsylvania animals and plants. Almost no story exists that is actually worse than what the Wasteland lives with on a daily basis. Super Mutants, feral ghouls, Deathclaws; these are all dangerous, but proven killable.

The prevalence of Vampirism in pre-War fiction has, to some extent, made Wastelanders paranoid about the prospect of a blood-sucking, hypnotic creature lurking around old castles. It is, however, important to note that there are few castles anywhere in DC. The closest thing there is to a castle is the President's Mansion, the White House. But with most of it gone and irradiated to high hell, no one finds it likely that even an immortal bat could survive there long.

That leads, or perhaps led, the Kid from Vault 101 to some of his most disbelieved research for the Guide to date: the chapter sub-heading on the Capital Wasteland's own resident Vampire population.

* * *

"Welcome, human. I am Vance. Welcome to Meresti."

The Kid stood before one of the oddest men he'd ever met in the Wasteland. Vance was a tall, pale man of only slightly mixed ancestry and carried a sword connected to a motorcycle gas tank on his back.

Not hearing a response, Vance continued.

"Have you come to join our Family, wanderer?"

"I'm looking for Ian West on behalf of the population of Arefu."

"Ah, yes. Young Ian. He has come to us seeking salvation and guidance and I intend on his receiving it."

"Evan King asked that I investigate his kidnapping."

"No such crime was committed by our enclave of Seekers."

"So what about Ian then?"

"He is resting. His… situation is not unlike the rest of ours and he requires a short retreat from the world for his own protection."

"What about you? What exactly is Meresti?"

Vance was not a man easily offended, but did show discomfort at the question. "Meresti is our home. It is a place of healing and of learning control."

"Control over what?"

"Young wanderer, let me share with you a story familiar to most of our Family. In my youth, I was a boy of simple tastes and knowledge that stimulant packs and radiation medication were just how people lived. But one day, I found myself thirsting for something I'd never known. I awoke in the yard of our settlement, my teeth around another child's wrist and I reveled in the taste.

"Human blood poured out of that child and I drank until I could not. That was when I knew. I ran from that settlement and never returned. By the time I was a man, I had settled here and found others who needed the years of resistance I had gathered about myself to the Hunger.

I am helping my Family, Ian included, in learning to resist their more… vampiric urges."

"So you're claiming to be a cabal of vampires," the Kid couldn't help but ask.

"Please. I thought you might see more reason than that. Do you believe me to be able to shift form into that of a bat and fly? Preposterous! But you bring up a good point."

"You utilize myths of vampirism in drawing parallels in why you shouldn't drink the blood of humans. Is that it?"

"Close. I have chosen this supernatural creature as my guide to teach my Family not to _eat_ the _flesh_ of a man. The blood is one aspect, one which comes back – but to give into the Hunger is, while forgivable, a danger we face each day.

"Many of our kind never flock here, so we must search. We know what signs to seek in that search. I spotted this aspect in young Ian almost as quickly as spotting him in the township of Arefu."

"His sister is worried about him."

"I did not know any of his human family remained. She is not of Arefu, is she?"

"No. I'm acting as a courier for her through Craterside Supply in Megaton." The Kid pulled out a slightly crumpled letter addressed to Ian.

"I can deliver this on your behalf," Vance offered.

"I wouldn't be upholding my part of the deal if I let that happen. I said I'd deliver this personally."

Vance looked the Kid over, making his final estimations. "It would seem, human, that you are an honorable man – not one to judge quickly. I shall allow you to see Ian, but remember that you were warned."

* * *

 **I don't normally write notes at the end of stories, but why not? First off, thank you for reading so far. I wasn't going to keep writing if no one was interested, and I intended the first chapter as a sort of testbed to see if the mashup worked. I guess it did to some extent. Second, I'd like to thank my readers so far and extra special thanks to those who left reviews for the first two chapters. All I'll say about future Guide entries is that they will vary from funny to serious, depending on which Wastelander wrote them. But Springvale might be regarded as unfashionable soon, and not just because I know someone there who I personally regard as unfashionable.**

 **Until next time,**

 _ **Smith**_


	4. Chapter 4

**The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Capital Wasteland**

 **The Definitive Guide to Understanding, Evading and/or Annihilating any and all Dangers Hiding in the DC Hellhole**

* * *

The following dedication appears in the book:

for Administrator Amata and Barber Butch  
and the last remaining DC Vault, 101  
for the life you gave and took freely

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

Far out on the unprotected backwaters on the unfashionable end of the western Capital Beltway surrounding the glorious District of Columbia lies a small, unregarded little Vault.

In the near vicinity of this Vault at a distance of not more than a morning's light jog is an utterly insignificant little grey-green town whose inhabitants are – or perhaps were – so amazingly primitive that they tend to think of radiation and the looming threat of war as a problem for other people.

These townspeople have – or rather had – a problem, which was this: most of them were unhappy, afraid and cowed pissants for pretty much all of the time. And that's not just because the lead author dislikes a man who once lived there in the back-when times. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of them were made impossible when the nuclear Final Solution was made a reality and the world was made that boring grey-green shade in all corners of the map.

There was also talk of running away to the moon, but that didn't really pan out well at all. Not at all. Don't try to orbit our planet. It's not safe there yet. Yet. Give it time.

The problem remained. Lots of people, anyone left, were still unhappy, afraid and, while getting better, still cowed into submission by any authority figure that presented itself. Usually with a gun. Or a plasma rifle.

After the passing of the year 2077, many people became increasingly of the opinion that they'd all made a big mistake in building fallout shelters at all. Others believed this so heartedly that they left the relative safety of those Vaults to venture out into the radiation maze. The Guide has yet to get a return researcher from the west, but we know one of the first opened Vaults was out that way. More to come on that.

And one Thursday, nearly two hundred years after one man had been shot in the back with a combat shotgun in Canada for trying to say how great it would be if everyone would get along and switch to nuclear power, a young man and his ghoul bodyguard were sitting in a bar in a beached aircraft carrier on the Potomac River in America's fine capital city sipping away at three hundred year old scotch and the Kid got it!

He understood all of the world's troubles and knew – knew! – that this time this was it and no one would have to get shot to prove a point ever again!

He proceeded to vomit half of his bottle of his fifteen-score scotch onto the floor of the Muddy Rudder bar in Rivet City. It was a low point, as were many of his involving alcohol. At least this time he wasn't threatening anyone.

This is his story.

This particular Thursday was one which would have gone by without note except for being the beginning of the Kid's third month out of Vault 101, a place of no other importance save it having sheltered the Kid for almost twenty years. As part of the Kid's growing monthly celebration, he finds a bar somewhere in the Wasteland, has the total of God alone knows how many drinks it takes for him to get piss-drunk and starts telling his story. Badly and off key. Colin Moriarty had the bad sense of both insulting the Kid and a ghoul he liked to hang out with this time last month. Almost got his head taken from his shoulders.

From time to time in the recounting of something called the Goat, for which this Guide has six conflicting reports, the Kid would stare off into the ceiling, seeming to attempt to glare holes in the metal latticework so that he might see the sky more clearly.

When asked what he was doing, the Kid would reply, "Oh, I'm just trying to find the sun."

When told that not only was it nighttime, but he is also on the lowest level of a century's old ship, the Kid would just fall into a silence that spread clinical depression through the bar. The barmaid, Belle Bonny made quite a bit of money at that moment selling cures. Kid was good for business, she thought.

These semi-often alcoholic anniversaries tended to end badly for the Kid. He'd get out of his skull on the scotch only he could afford though being a scavving packrat, get into a fight over either the money he's tossing around or his conversation, and end up getting thrown out of town for this or that.

"Charon," the Kid slurred, "what if I told you that I wasn't from Rivet-ton after all, but from a small Vault somewhere in the vicinity of Springvale?"

"I am not sure," the ancient ghoul said, shrugging in that sort of way that says he respects you, but wants you to shut the hell up and stop making a damned nuisance of yourself. "Is this a statement you are likely to make?"

The Kid poured another shot into his stained glass. It was flying down his numb throat almost before the bottle was down. "Drink, buddy. The world's ended."

Of this, Charon thought, I am perfectly aware. The Guide has entries on many individual people in the Wastes. These files include known associates of the Kid from Vault 101. Granted, some files are more complete than others, but even the thin ones have some interest to them.

The Kid drank another shot and though about those entries to be. The idea was gone as the last of the scotch found its way into his liver on an attempt to finish him off via alcohol poisoning.

Charon bemoaned, "Today must be a Thursday. I could never stand behind a Thursday."

It is of note that of the few statements Charon the ghoul has verified of his own past, Thursday was the weekday he'd discovered his body changing into that of a creature from an old monster movie.

Despite the several corrections noted in the entry for the various Vaults in the Washington DC area, there is one entry which stands above them all: Vault 101.

As the lead author on the Guide, the Kid from said Vault knew it well and explained one thing very clearly: 101 is an isolationist paradise. Safe as a mother's womb and ignorant to anything at all going on out here. The other Vault-Tec facilities? Hell. Unadulterated Hell. Don't scavenge in them, don't go near them. You will die.

But 101 is nice.

Vault 101, it says, is about the most massively useful fallout bunker the pre-War world could have come up with. Partly is has great practical value – you can stick thousands of people in it and maintain a positive population for several hundred years; you can protect them from the cold, dark dangers of atomic weapons and the creatures that rise from it; use it to save your society and even test how people eventually fuck up when a less than ideal situation is forced on them for decades at a time.

More importantly, a Vault has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a Waster (a person living in some Wasteland) finds that a Vault is habitable, they will automatically assume the people inside are in possession of food, water, fresh towels, soap, booze, maps, repellent, space suits and a willingness to share these things freely like some goddamn Communist – damn it, Nathan. Don't type on this old terminal. No erasures… shit!

Anyway… people just think that Vaulties are willing to give anything away. They're not. At least the ones from 101 are more than willing to let people die and turn to dust in that tunnel and no one, even the Enclave at their prime, could get past that door without a dozen bonafide atomic bombs.

"Want to take a walk to my Vault?"

"Is the massive steel door of Vault 101 not still closed and locked," the ghoul asked.

"I gutta' message. 'Mata changed the code. Gutta' see what's goin' on? Better yet, you stay here. Don't wan' you getten hurt in there. Gunna' sleep in Vera's place before—"

The Guide says several things about alcohol: where to get the best drinks and where not to get ripped off, but mostly condemning any who abuse it. This entry and its bias come from experience of the main field researcher.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Capital Wasteland**

 **The Definitive Guide to Understanding, Evading and/or Annihilating any and all Dangers Hiding in the DC Hellhole**

* * *

The following dedication appears in the book:

for Augustus and John  
and all the Hellfire troopers  
for every bullet you took to heart

* * *

Pre-Chapter Five

The following is meant as a preface to any and all information the Guide has on the Enclave and is the lead editor's approximation of the actions taken by and words spoken by members of the Enclave and the Lone Wanderer prior to the destruction of the Raven Rock complex in the northern Capital Wasteland. This approximation was written using a combination of a partial recording done on the PipBoy model 3000 owned by the Lone Wanderer at the time of the Enclave-Brotherhood war.

Running up toward the former United States military complex, the Lone Wanderer had little more patience for the remnants of the pre-War political offices of America. He'd been pushed around, his family killed and his – his! – purifier defiled and turned into a shadow of its past self.

"You barbarians! I'll burn your forces to every man if I have to! I'll have you hung and spiked and filled with holes! And beaten! And chewed by my dog… until… until… until you've had enough!"

His traveling companion finally caught up with him. He was a hulking man, one of the first victims of the Super Mutant FEV experiments in Vault 87. Fawkes put his hand on the Wanderer's shoulder.

"My friend," was all he got out before the tirade went on.

"And I'll lock you all in Braun's Vault and let him kill you. Again! And again! And when I'm old and grey and Braun's had his way with you, I will take what's left of you out of Vault 112 and saw you into bits! And give the bits to Dogmeat's grandkids! And watch!"

The Wanderer didn't notice the Vertibirds taking off from the massive, mountainous base. He didn't notice the Enclave personnel running from the base in their bulky power armor or the explosion he'd caused only moments before.

"And I will keep on sawing until all the fuel runs out and I switch to lasers and until I think of other unpleasant things to do and then…"

Fawkes physically pushed the Wanderer's face skyward where several of the vertical takeoff aircraft were fleeing the growing chaos.

"What the hell's happening to them?"

What, indeed, was happening? No visuals remain, but reports from witnesses say that the night sky in the northern Wastes was suddenly bright as the day and was as suddenly as dark. On the recording, a mind-numbing blow sounds – one that likely drew out the air itself from the atmosphere.

This sound followed with another one, but this time was even louder than before.

"I believe," Fawkes said, "you must have done something."

"Who bloody knows?"

* * *

It is difficult to know exactly what the member of the Enclave military were doing at this moment. Some were fleeing like radroaches exposed to sunlight for the first time. Some were, perhaps, dying terrible deaths at the hands of a security system that the Wanderer later informed us he reprogrammed. Most were already howling noiselessly at the noise and otherwise indisposed to escape with the rest of their people.

One man sat motionless, knowing the end had come. John Henry Eden, President of the United States of America and leader of the Enclave, sat quietly at his desk while bank on bank of associated memories sputtered and burned, erasing the small, simple illusion he'd taken so much time in building.

Of all the people who the rightful government and army of the United States could have pissed off, it had to be the one that the local population called its Messiah.

Still, President Eden knew what he had to do. As the human forces of Raven Rock tried in vain to save themselves, he opened his command structure. He threw out the files that told the quadruped sentry bots who was friend and who was foe. He threw away the copies of all research files, gleefully throwing them up into the simulated air, as he knew they were no longer of any use to any one. He would not need them where he was going.

Everything was ready, everything was ruined.

President Eden turned his attention to the radio transmission program.

"And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor. True to you, faithful America. I resign my spirit to God, and my children to my nation."

A silence fell over Raven Rock. The noise fell into nothing and, for just a while, nothing happened. In the bowels of the facility, a small, unremarkable closet glowed with the mighty Glow of Atom. There was a whisper: an officer faltering under intense radiation exposure, dying before she even knew the hint of pain.

The silence was broken.

The mountain opened its maw.

The silence returned.

The Lone Wanderer and his Super Mutant companion were gone, off into the Wastes once more.

* * *

Chapter Five

But the story was far from over – or rather, storytelling convention precludes us from going any farther without at least explaining how the Lone Wanderer first came to hold such hatred for the American government. For that, we have to go back. Way back.

Unfortunately for readers of the Guide, we are not in possession of a classical American sports car, alien eye-shaped power sources or an International Business Machines Corporation model 5100 personal computer, so we can't actually go anywhere along any hypothetical temporal stream. You'll just have to settle for a good, old-fashioned story.

Following the theft of the Jefferson Memorial and, by logical extension, the much more modern addition that is Project Purity, the son of the lead scientist of the Purity project obtained a personal and total hatred of all things Enclave – and a nasty drinking problem that was exacerbated by his temporary alliance with the Talon Company and wouldn't go anywhere for quite a while. This is due to the fact that the Enclave was at least partially responsible for the Kid's father's death.

Sad all around – and we haven't gotten to the short-lived genocidal rampage the Kid went on thereafter on the National Mall.

It wasn't long after the Waters of Life's theft that the Kid from Vault 101 cut off all communication with the Brotherhood of Steel, having helped and been helped in return by the Brotherhood and their Wasteland allies over his search for his father and subsequent escape from Purity.

He left Megaton on assignment, didn't speak with the Brotherhood and barely kept in touch with his personal allies; all the while, Three-Dog made him the savior of humanity with little more than his hypnotic voice. So where did this leave the Enclave?

In a bad PR position. Not that they cared, as their mandate was to save pureblooded Americans at the expense of everyone else. To this, the Kid from Vault 101 said, "No more."

"No more."

"No more."

"Stop that."

The Kid's allied commander danced around him a little almost singing, "No more."

"Really."

"No more," the commander finished.

"Having fun," the Kid asked.

"When you get to be my age, you see how much fun you get outside fuckin' with people."

"I didn't think you Talon mercs had a funny bone between the lot of you."

"And I didn't think some Vault asshole could drink more than old Jabsco. That fuck died of alcohol poisoning last night."

The Kid considered this. "That leaves you in charge, doesn't it? Bet that earns me a favor."

"'Course. You want Talon for a job?"

"I'm looking for someone; an old Enclave officer, retired. Last known home some old tin shack out near Fort Constantine. Think you can find him and bring him here?"

"Kid, Talon ain't a scavenger hunt, but if you got the Caps, we'll do anything."

"Anything," the Kid asked.

"Nearly. Some of us have something we use for morals. Just don't get to exercise 'em all that often. An Enclave officer, huh? Any other info?"

"Should be a man about your age and in possession of advanced weaponry and armor. I'd be careful."

"Got it. I'll send some men out and see what we come up with. No promises."

* * *

In 2283, the Guide partnered with the Brotherhood of Steel, the Canterbury Commons Trade Caravan Company and several private investors and travelers to send an expedition west across America. From what limited information each party could pool at the time, it was clear that there was at least one thriving nation on the Pacific coast and plenty of decade's out-of-date data that needed to change.

The Guide has this to say about the west coast Enclave.

"Here's what to do if you ever come across an Enclave patrol: run. I mean it. Run for your little life and tell your grandchildren you escaped alive – they won't believe you.

"They are one of the most brutal, callous, unpleasant groups alive in the Wasteland – any Wasteland – today and God, most wish they would just vanish already. They're not actually evil in the classical sense, but they are overworked, bureaucratic to a fault and think far too highly of their sense of patriotism to a nation that ceased to exist more than two centuries ago.

"They wouldn't even stop to assist a comrade if the orders weren't signed, copied three times, sent to high command, sent back, indexed and copied, lost, found once more, lost again following a general survey of their usefulness to the great nation of America, and finally buried in a Brahman pen and recycled as fertilizer.

"The best way to get any assistance from the Enclave is to shoot yourself several times in the foot until the power armor is long over the horizon.

"On no account should you allow a member of the Enclave to explain America."

On the expedition's return from the west, the entry on Enclave was updated to include something that, for some strange reason, the Brotherhood wasn't told when they first were sent to Washington.

"In 2241, the Enclave was delivered a killing blow in the form of nuclear fire by an angry tribal who was, amongst other things, angry about his village being kidnapped by the Enclave that year. Armed with little more than a dog, some human allies and – most apocryphal – a smart Deathclaw, this mysterious "Narg" managed to assassinate the last human President of America, kill hundreds of power armored soldiers personally and completely destroy the Enclave base far off the shore of California inside a month of knowing his mission.

"Much of this is based on eye-witness accounts of citizens of the New California Republic, the remainder of the California BoS and the articles and records of several major Wasteland Settlements in California and Nevada.

"When the search for this "Narg" turned up nothing, the expedition gave up for other avenues of exploration. The only mention of this man other than being, at times, called "the Chosen One," is an intelligent Super Mutant to the northwest of the Nevada desert who claims to have traveled with the man for some time earlier in the century. This cannot be corroborated as no other information mentions a Super Mutant, but neither are the editors of the Guide inclined to disbelieve this man.

"At this time, the Enclave is considered all but destroyed; their memory of terror fading into tradition and those left alive feeling lucky not to have been crucified by the Legion, executed by the NCR, captured by the BoS, or found by such men as the Lone Wanderer or the Chosen One on one of their bad days."


	6. Chapter 6

**The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Capital Wasteland**

 **The Definitive Guide to Understanding, Evading and/or Annihilating any and all Dangers Hiding in the DC Hellhole**

* * *

The following dedication appears in the book:

for Calvert and Desmond  
and all your machinations  
for listening to reason at long last

* * *

 **Pre-Chapter Six**

The Wasteland is vast. If you rarely leave your settlement, you might not realize how stupidly, mind-bogglingly large your home really is. Before the Great War of 2077, the Capital was just one part of a much larger nation of a much larger world and everyone knew that for a fact. Now-a-days we don't even know if China was a real place or just an antique memory from a far off land. One can only hope Shelley did not live and die in vain as so many other classical wordsmiths must have.

It's true what they say: those who do not understand the past don't have a future. Even worse, those who do understand the past are doomed to watch other people surrender the future. In the final days of man, protesters decried America's use of armed invasion as a means to collect oil. Their own countrymen shot those men and women, even the children, on Capitol Hill. Either way, war never changes. Neither do grudges.

In the Wasteland Survival Guide, the lead research editor has a few carefully selected words to say about Point Lookout National Park in Maryland. Under the heading "Point Lookout," the words "Hell on Earth" appear most prominently in large, unfriendly red print which has been underlined several times by hand in each copy. Under this in slightly smaller, slightly less aggressive lettering and in the Guide's standard black ink are the words "Should you value your life at all, heed my advice." Thereafter, the chapter begins in earnest.

"Point Lookout National Park is a danger to all who venture farther inland than ten meters from the shore. It is totally cut off from the world from the north through one of the most violent radiation storms ever recorded and is only accessible by ship on the southern shore adjacent to the old, rotting pier and amusement area.

"Should a friendly voice entice you with the putrid local fruit, word of adventure and untouched treasure with a compelling message of togetherness, you are advised to shoot on site. The previous three masters of the cursed ship _Duchess Gambit_ have been met with very public crucifixion via rail spike on the banks of the Potomac. It would be unsurprising if the fourth such seafarer met with this fate. In fact, I guarantee it. This entry will be revised as more fools Captain the ship.

"Should you find yourself in Point Lookout regardless of my warnings, or worse yet _because_ of the warnings, there are a few things to avoid if you want to stay alive.

"Firstly, read the complete works of Howard Phillips Lovecraft (included in the technical appendix, section 7, sub-section C of the Extended Edition of the Guide. Copyright be damned, this is post-apocalyptia god damn it!). This pre-War horror writer was considered a master of his craft and, having personally experienced Point Lookout before his return to Providence, Rhode Island, a master of artfully telling the truth of the world as no other human in all of recorded history has been able to replicate. The Park is not unlike the descriptions of terrible, un-human locations as dictated in Mr. Lovecraft's work.

"Secondly, make contact with Madame Panada of the local shop House of Wares. Assuming she is still alive, she can guide you with cryptic and barely helpful anecdotes prior to your foolish trip into the swamps. Ah! If she tells you to buy all the ammo and medicine you can carry, it's best just to do as she says. You'll be broke, but your odds of survival go up to an effective 50-50. Much better than certain demise, wouldn't you agree?

"Lastly, if you meet anyone who refuses to give you the full details of their half-conceived plans, get the ever-loving hell out of there and don't look back. The tribals are not there to help you. The Brain is not there to help you. The ghoul isn't there to help you. And for the love of anything you hold holy, do not so much as speak to any member of the Blackhall family. Their book is long gone, never to return.

"In Point Lookout, it is important to shoot on sight. Nothing less will save your foolish life."

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

"Fear," the Wasteland Survival Guide says, "is a powerful tool. Throughout history, fear stood as one of the driving factors in control of a population center. This could be obtained in a number of ways.

"The first and most powerful is fear of an all-powerful and/or all-seeing being. Many people used to believe in an unseen, but somehow supreme super-being with the ability to see all, know all and, through some fallacy of logic, have unlimited kindness toward a creation of his that he allowed to war itself out of existence. If as an editor for the Guide, I sound jaded on the subject, it is because the idea of a kind God is appalling after the end of the world."

Appendix note 19.1: It should be noted that one of the Guide's editors is a ghoul living in Grand Rapids, Michigan at the time of the Great War. He was on vacation in Muskegon with family at the time Chicago was bombed and subsequently changed. Mr. Carr is a wealth of information and should be shown respect for his efforts. –LW, 2282

"Fear also comes from other sources. The most prevalent one is violence or the threat thereof. If you, as a leader, execute a man to prove you are willing to go to that length to maintain or establish order, then others are, for better or worse, likely to fall into line.

"During my time in Michigan after the war, this was normal."

* * *

The Brotherhood Archives had a security problem that no one seemed to want to fix. Sixteen men in power armor patrolled the halls of the former Pentagon in shifts of four hours. Not an inch of those corridors was left unwatched for longer than moments, but something had been moving in and out of the Citadel for weeks now, always clattering at terminal keyboards and vanishing when a Knight would turn the corner into the Archive chamber.

Every time, a new carving appeared in the rotting drywall behind the main terminal. Sometimes it was a word of thanks, other times initials or the Brotherhoods official designation for the Kid from Vault 101. Not a one, from the freshest Brother taken in from the Wastes to Elder Lyons himself had a clue how the young man penetrated their defenses so often or so perfectly, but they all silently gave thanks that he at least seemed to consider himself part of their organization.

In some ways, the Brotherhood respected what the Kid was doing out in the Wastes; succeeding where they failed in expanding safe territory for humans. In other ways, they wondered in soft tones and hushed voices what drove him so close to the edge of death without ever asking for proper back up. Fear for and of the Kid drove some of their rumors. The older Paladins feared he'd get hurt without their help while the younger Knights and recruits feared the man himself. His execution methods didn't help, but they certainly made the point. If members of the Brotherhood were frightened of his ways, then others were as well.

One day the security leaks stopped, and the rumors stopped, and there was no word from the Kid for several weeks thereafter.

* * *

The Guide has extensive files on persons of interest in the Wasteland and beyond. We pride ourselves on being the most comprehensive Guide to the Wastes as possible, and to that end have cataloged people as well as locations. The following was donated to the Guide by various parties including the one discussed and arranged by its lead editor in 2290 at the joint request of the populations of Megaton, 101 City and the Talon Company.

The purpose of this entry and it's placement at the head of the Lone Wanderer's entry in the Guide is to show how this man made the change from one of DC's final Vault Dwellers to our Savior.

Appendix note 36.4: For the love of fuck. Stop treating me like some kind of Messiah. I had a job. I did it. End of story. –LW, 2298

"I suppose it's been long enough since the last time I made a recording so I wanted to get some of this down. If my PipBoy is right, I've been out of Vault 101 for one hundred fifty days. More than four months since Dad died and I've been running around the fucking Wastes doing all this—

"Let me start again. The point is that Moria wanted an account of what I've been up to down on paper. Paper, let alone pens that still work, is hard to come by out in the field. But PipBoy diskettes are all over the place.

"It's the fifteenth of January in 2278. I just got back from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It was a hell of a lot better than Point Lookout Park was – back-to-back horrors, both places. I need a vacation. Remind me to shoot the shipmaster next chance I get. No one deserves that place. Moria, I think I'm ready now. I know how to beat them. Not the bastard running the Pitt – he and I have an arrangement that may well one day save the Wasteland. But the Enclave. Remember that officer I had Harker hunt down? Call in Sally, Harker and Jones. I'm coming home. I'll need guns. Lots of guns."

From that point, the Lone Wanderer's history becomes a point of contention. There are reports from the Brotherhood of Steel about his combat progress approaching that of a one-man army. There are reports from the settlements around Inner DC that he armed and trained every able-bodied man and woman he could get to stand in a line. There are reports of him dropping honest-to-God nuclear bombs on whole armies that stood in his way.

Appendix note 36.5: Few of these reports can be corroborated by the Guide as many are fantastical in nature and, as it would seem, only partly true. It is worth note that though the Lone Wanderer was once a full time editor of the Guide, he has done little more than add anecdotes or appendix notes to entries in many years. –MB, 2298


End file.
